Hops and Skips

When I began this blog last year, I made the decision to approach it differently than my many previous ones by writing for an audience, not just myself – that in addition to serving as a digital collection of my memories, this space could also be a resource for inspiration, advice, or just shared experience.

That being said…

In the past, when I’ve read personal stories of miscarriage, I’ve viewed them as a self-indulgent form of writing – not in a negative, selfish way but as a form of therapy intended to help an individual cope. But since suffering the same misfortune a couple months ago, as I have sought my own coping mechanisms, I’ve found myself searching for voices that put words to the experience – someone else’s articulation that may help me sift through the sadness, the fear, the confusion.

I wrote this in my notebook pretty soon thereafter my own early miscarriage. Perhaps these words can lend a voice to someone else’s healing.

I was pregnant, and then I wasn’t. The idea barely had time to settle in and make itself comfortable before it was suddenly no longer an immediate part of my future. There’s a sadness and an emptiness that came quickly and unexpectedly, even though I was hardly used to the idea of being a family of four; the reality had yet to set in – far from it. I feel a sense of mourning, but for what – more for this child that will never be, or for the future and changes and plans it was going to bring?


I am one of the lucky ones, and I can tell myself this is the case in many ways – I can get pregnant; I lost it early, before getting more attached; I already have one child. The logic in me says this is normal/easier/common/hardly momentous. Does that make the grief, or whatever version of it, I feel, then, indulgent? Does it make sense, is it justified – considering all I do have, all that I have been spared from possibly suffering?


This realist says I am fine – it makes sense; my body was doing its job; I am saved from other possible difficulties and pain had this pregnancy continued. The realist says I should move on quickly and quietly, showing up at work with a smile, pretending I spent the last couple days under the weather. The realist says my lack of motivation for work is unrelated, selfish even, because how dare I use this as an excuse to take off work. Your body is fine; it was a natural outcome; it all makes such sense that you should brush it off and move on.


I’ve never had a “plan” for kids, but now I feel that plan is threatened – that the reality I was granted became my plan, but now it was taken away. My brain is jumbled with dates and age gaps and what’s too much or too little, what’s good for me vs. good for kids. Will more years apart cause less relatability? Will kids closer in age be more connected or will they be more combative? Does any of it even matter or is it all just a crap shoot?


Mostly, though, I fear an unanticipated future – stress or anxiety, fear of this repeating itself, difficulty getting there to begin with, and life and its decisions becoming focused on one end goal that is somewhat out of our control. We have to move forward, but it feels like backwards steps, trying to get back to a place we’d still be, that we never intended to leave to begin with. It’s back to square one, and I just hope I have the energy and strength to start over again.

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